


X

by Crowgirl



Series: Welcoming Silences [11]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Damply Pensive, Fishing, M/M, Thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 19:52:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4848296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foyle takes himself fishing on Saturday morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	X

Foyle takes himself fishing on Saturday morning. 

He’s out to the river when the sun is barely risen. It’s clear, a little cold, and very still. He doesn’t pass anyone on his short walk from his house; getting down through the field to the band of trees that shelters the stream, he passes a farmhand he knows by sight, but not name, yawning his way into town on some errand.

When he gets down to the river, he selects a fly without a great deal of thought and leaves his kit on the bank next to a thermos of tea and a small packet of two scones.

The high water from the last rainstorm shifted the bed of sand he usually stands on, so he chooses another spot about midstream near a large boulder and casts. The water is still fairly shallow here; there’s a rise in the bed that runs perpendicular to the stream, handy for fly fishermen if no-one else.

For a few minutes, the rhythm of casting, plucking up the fly, and casting again occupies him. But once the fly settles satisfactorily on the water and nothing remains but to watch it, his attention wanders.

The case is frustrating him. No matter what he finds now, it won’t be good. He’s too late to save anyone, he knows that. He squints over the water at where the fly is caught up in an eddy. And then -- Paul. Of course. Always, now, back to Paul.

He huffs at himself in irritation and flicks the fly out again.

Now that the case is nearly over, perhaps Paul will consider leaving again -- it isn’t as though Hastings offers him a great deal. With his wife gone and an empty house on his hands -- Well, Foyle knows that both Brighton and Southampton would be happy to get Paul. And it would be a good idea, career-wise. 

Foyle frowns at the fly and shifts uncomfortably. The water is numbing his shins and no matter where he puts his weight he can feel a sharp rock under his left instep. He eyes the boulder beside him for a moment and then pulls the fly in.

It’s awkward, but he clambers to the dry top of the rock and props his heels on the rough ledges he used as steps. He can’t cast very well from a seated position but it isn’t as though he’s fishing for his supper.

He lets the fly drift down into a pool nearly at his feet and watches it bob and drift. He can hear birds in the trees along the bank rustling among the drying leaves and long grass. Long rays of light are starting to make their way out over the water; the sun will be above the trees in less than an hour, time for him to think about breakfast then.

If Paul leaves -- Foyle had done well enough on his own before. He could request a new sergeant -- even if the thought does make him wince a little. He really would rather not have to do that. Technically, he wouldn’t have to. So -- if Paul goes, just him, then. He scowls and tugs at his line, pulling the fly off the surface of the water and letting it drift into another pool.

‘I don’t want him to go,’ he says aloud, startling himself, and then sighs. ‘I don’t want him to go.’

Which then begs the question. Why. Because Paul’s an excellent second, possibly the best he’s had? A good officer, a credit to the Hastings force? 

Foyle twitches the fly into another pool slightly further away. He shifts position on the rock and glances at the sun. It’s almost above the treetops and it feels like a deadline. So.

He doesn’t want Paul to stay because Paul’s a credit to the force. It’s because Paul comes to his house every Thursday night and, for a few hours at least, Foyle doesn’t feel lonely in his own home. He knows the difference between being alone and being lonely -- he’s had years to work on the distinction and he doesn’t mind being alone. Being lonely grows painful and he could say that anyone’s presence would make it better, that there’s nothing special about Paul’s being there, it could be elderly Mrs. Venables from across the street, but that would be a lie and he’s too old to waste his time -- or anyone else’s -- playing that kind of game.

So, no, he doesn’t want Paul to stay because Paul is a good officer or a bright light on the Hastings force although both of those things are true. It’s because he has grown used to making two cups of tea at once on one evening in the week, and washing more than one plate, and having someone in the other armchair. It’s because he likes the sound of Paul’s voice, and his laugh, and the deadly dry jokes he comes up with, and the stories he’s been offering lately about his family, his mother and his sister. 

Foyle glances up at the sun again, now well above the trees, sighs, and starts to reel his line in. His feet are cold and this has been a charade from beginning to end; might as well admit it now before he gives himself chilblains. 

If Paul wants to leave, he will. There’s nothing Foyle can do to stop him. It won’t matter how many times Foyle has covertly admired the curve of Paul’s lower lip when he smiles, or debated over the exact term to describe the color of his eyes, or tried to conjure back into his memory the precise feeling of Paul’s fingers from the few times they’ve touched in past weeks.

Foyle reels in the last of the line, dripping over his knees, and sits for a minute watching the last of the mist evaporate up off the field beyond the riverbank. It’s while he’s watching the reels of vapour twist and vanish into the air that he thinks about the previous day, Paul sitting across the table in the tiny garden behind the pub. 

He pauses, waits, and the thought completes itself: Paul hadn’t looked _sad._ He had shared the telegram, talked about packing Jane’s things up, and he hadn’t _once_ looked sad. Or sounded it.

Foyle taps his fingertips on the dripping reel and pulls at the inside of his cheek thoughtfully for a minute. 

Well. That’s a new question, isn’t it?

**Author's Note:**

> Technically speaking in terms of the show's chronology, this takes place during "The White Feather" or between that and "A Lesson in Murder."
> 
> With _Foyle's_ as with all the stories I write fic for, I rarely treat the canon as being, well, canonical in the sense of being set in stone. Yes, I'm going to play within the rules of the given 'verse because that's the point, but if I start to worry about doing a play-by-play of the episode arcs and fitting _my_ story with Horowitz' then I take a lot of the fun out of this for myself and, by extension, you! 
> 
> Think of it in the spirit of pirate rules -- really, the canon's more like guidelines.


End file.
